By the age of 16 I’d gathered enough courage from my friends and a feisty principal who dared tell my sister no that I started quietly rebelling. Not too much. Just a hairstyle here or a bit of makeup there. This resulted in my sister trying to ground me for an entire year. Which resulted in me trying to kill myself the first time. Thank god I’m a coward when it comes to pain or I wouldn’t be here.

I did start harming myself, though, and I was creative about it. I didn’t like the idea of cutting as knives made me feel squidgy. However, I kept my nails long and would rake them down parts of my body that I currently hated. Arms, tummy, legs, butt… nothing was spared. The other self-harm thing I did relied a lot on fate. I would walk out into traffic and not bother even looking to see if a car was coming. I heard the squeal of tires on pavement and drivers swearing many times, much to my disappointment. Not that I wanted to die. I just wanted to get injured. If I were injured then my sister would have to at least pretend to love me. It wasn’t much but it was something.

See, I was in a conundrum. I knew that how my sister treated me was wrong but I couldn’t stop myself trying to please her. When I did stop, I felt an insane amount of guilt. It was my job to make her happy and I failed at my reason for existing. My sister knew this and used my guilt to her advantage. To this day I’m a sucker for a guilt trip.

However, 16 saw lots of changes in my life. A few years earlier my sister married our first cousin. It was just another family secret to keep and then they had a son. Now that she had a family, I wasn’t needed. So, she bought a two bedroom home and my things were put in the basement where I was allowed to sleep once in a while. My parents got a two bedroom apartment that they shared with my brother.

Me? I was homeless and didn’t even know it.

It was two weeks before Christmas that year when a good friend was murdered in an arson fire. My world tilted and for the first time my self-harm was getting out of hand. When my sister moved into her house and my parents moved into their apartment, I had nowhere to go. My mother even took this opportunity to tell me that she didn’t want to be bothered being my mother any longer and I could do as I pleased. My sister was a real mom now. I had no one.

Several predators tried to prey on me but I was well protected. Remember when I said that John used to ride with a motorcycle gang? Well, he pulled in a favor and they spread the word that I was to be left alone. It wasn’t much but I didn’t realize how important that protection was until I was much older.

The problem with my situation was I was open to less obvious predators and got into many abusive relationships as a result. Only one tried to hit me but that stopped when I hit him back and nearly knocked him out. However, gaslighting is an insidious form of abuse.

I couch surfed for the most part. Slept in parks when it was warm and retreated to either my sister’s basement or a storage closet in my parent’s apartment. At least I had regular showers and no one denied me the opportunity to raid their fridge. I had a job offer to become a stripper but since I wasn’t yet 18, I turned it down.

In my 20s I realized there was something wrong with me but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. When you’re scrambling for a place to live, anxiety and depression become comfortable bed buddies to keep you warm at night. The psychiatrist I first saw suggested I confront my sister.

That went over well.

My sister denied everything. Going so far as to say it never happened. I was confused. I knew these things happened but she kept saying the same line, “it never happened.” My sister has a great orator’s skill. She can bestow such grace upon her listeners that they would swear angels just landed on the front lawn. Her talents are wasted as a social worker. She should have become a cult leader.

After a year of this I began to believe her. This was the 90s when false memories were a very real concern. I began to fervently believe I’d made it all up. In this new memory, my sister was a sweet and doting sibling who gave me everything to make my home loving and warm. Holidays were a joy and birthdays never went unnoticed. This new memory took away my guilt of not being able to fulfill my role as her joy bringer. Yet, the anxiety and depression never went away. My sister had an answer for that, too; I was defective.

A few years later I was in the University of Alberta in my third year on my Bachelor of Arts degree when I met up with a childhood friend. Michelle and I reminisced about our childhood together when she started bringing up the instances of abuse. Confused and alarmed, I told her that these things never happened. I’d made it all up.

Michelle had a core of iron and was as strong a person as anyone I knew. She looked at me and assured me it all had happened. She’d been there. Still alarmed, I took Michelle to see my sister where she repeated everything she said to me. My sister never even missed a beat. Instead, she looked at Michelle and said, “it never happened.”

It was then I understood. I would never get an apology or confession. She would never admit the horrific things she’d done to me. It wasn’t until I was in my 30s when I realize how deep her need to abuse me went.

My brother James succumbed to colon cancer and finally passed away. It was I who had been caring for both him and our aging parents for the past year or so. At the funeral I was pretty numb and hadn’t yet started grieving. My sister sought me out and said, “I wish it had been you that died rather than James. James would have taken care of Mom and Dad.”

Those words still haunt me but I wouldn’t find the strength to end our relationship for another dozen years or so. Two weeks before Christmas, always a difficult time for me, and I dared ask her for a favor. She started screaming at me and my entire childhood flooded back. I was a two year old girl who had just piddled at her feet like a bad puppy again. The spanking was coming.

However, I was no longer the same person I was. I had a new friend in my life and I learned from his quiet and steady strength. He was the first person to accept me as a whole being, broken bits and all. He taught me that I was complete as I was.

Something in me snapped and I hung up on my sister, telling her not to bother me again. With the exception of concerns for my mother’s care, she’s out of my life.

My father has been dead these past 10 years and I think he’d be proud of who I’ve become. It’s taken me six years to write these words down and even now I still worry that I’m going to get punished for them. I’m starting a business and working on getting my life on track. A difficult job for a woman in her 50s whose entire being was once taken up with the job of making her sister happy. Life goes forward.

I am a survivor and a victim.

]]>dstlukeIt Never Happened – A True Story of Sibling Abuse (Part 5)https://stluked.wordpress.com/2018/09/12/it-never-happened-a-true-story-of-sibling-abuse-part-5/
Wed, 12 Sep 2018 14:57:47 +0000http://stluked.wordpress.com/?p=996[…]]]>I never expected this story to be so long but how can I make my readers understand? I wasn’t beaten within an inch of my life. I was never in physical danger. My abuse came through words and shame. Punishment for not being perfect. For not anticipating my abuser’s desires and whims. For just being me. Ah but my story is nearing its end. I invite you to stay a while longer and hear what I have to tell you.

Something magical happened when I turned 12. Due to the bullying I got at school taking a dangerous turn, I was switched to a new school. An academic school called Crestwood Junior High. It was here my life changed forever.

Specifically I found two books that changed who I was at the core of my being.

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee opened my mind in ways that I never imagined possible. Abuse closes doors and abusers rely on their victims never learning or thinking anything outside their control. My sister often bragged about me being her tabula rasa and being able to write whatever she wanted on me. Ms. Lee’s words changed all that.

I suppose at this point I should explain that my family was racist. I thought terms like Paki and Chink were normal. Indians were drunks who beat their wives. I was taught this was how the world worked. Then I read the words,

“When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.

I suddenly learned true shame. Shame in my family that I feel to this day. I also learned about justice and standing up for what was right. Suddenly my sister’s abuse took on another light and I started to silently chafe.

The other book I read was Comes the Blind Fury by John Saul. It was the first horror book I’d written. I loved it. I lived my life in a constant state of fear and worry. Here was a book that took the concept of fear and reduced it to words. Words were manageable. Words were understandable. This meant I could manage and understand the abuse.

The change in me was slow but steady and the change in my sister corresponded accordingly. Her control of me was slipping and she knew it. Getting punished came swifter and more often.

As a child, my obedience was based on my mother’s adamant assertion that I was born to make my sister’s life better. Now I was learning that this was an unjust situation and I could fight back but my sister’s jealousy and hatred of me grew to the size of a colossus.

I grew from a pretty child to a stunningly beautiful teen. I still retained my long lean muscles but I had one asset growing quickly; my breasts. By the time I was 14 I was a D cup and showed no signs of slowing. A legacy of my father’s family. My sister’s verbal assault of me never slowed but now she added a new element; slut shaming.

I understand now that I was everything my sister would never be and she was furious. Now graduated from university, my sister embarked on her career as a social worker and now she took the fight to the schools.

She demanded that school authorities start testing me for various problems. When it became clear they’d be investigating my home life, she was sure to tell them I was spoiled. I was too afraid to tell anyone the truth. My sister was a social worker and they took her word as gospel while I couldn’t speak out. Teachers started treating me like a spoiled child who was acting out and seeking attention.

When I hit high school she started lashing out in more and more creative ways. At one point my locker was searched for drugs by an anonymous tip. At another point I was called into the principal’s office. Inside sat the principal with the school resource officer, a cop I only knew as Bernie.

They informed me that my sister demanded that I get drug tested. I was too weary of this game by now and only sighed. Grounding me for a week or two no longer worked so she’d taken to grounding me for months at a time. My latest was six months where I was to go nowhere but school, no television, no phone, no newspapers, nothing but school and homework. My moods alternated between suicide and running away. Anything to escape her relentless bombardment. Now I wasn’t even safe at school.

The principal, a canny man who’d seen far too much in his years read everything in that small sigh. He asked me what was going on and I was far too tired, too sick, too weary to lie any longer. I told him everything.

Remember, this was the 80s. A time when schools still looked the other way if a kid came in with bruises. There was no one forcing them to report anything to child services. Discipline in the home stayed in the home. However, my principal was different and so was Officer Bernie.

They asked me what I wanted to do. I said nothing. Drug test me if they wished. I no longer cared. They didn’t and they called my sister later telling her that not only would they not drug test me but they would no longer allow her any input in my schooling.

She was furious but the worst was yet to come.

Ah but this part of my story isn’t done yet. There were several other factors that came into play at this time but I fear I’ve run out of space, dear reader. So I must bid adieu and invite you to return tomorrow to hear more of my story.

(to be continued…)

]]>dstlukeIt Never Happened – A True Story of Sibling Abuse (Part 4)https://stluked.wordpress.com/2018/09/11/it-never-happened-a-true-story-of-sibling-abuse-part-4/
Tue, 11 Sep 2018 14:06:07 +0000http://stluked.wordpress.com/?p=994[…]]]>At this point it’s probably a little difficult for you to keep score so let me set the scene of a typical day for you;

My sister’s screaming and demands would often begin in the morning. Starting with my mood. If I didn’t wake up fast enough, I got a very cold and very wet washcloth in my face. If I wasn’t cheerful enough I got grounded. If I asked for more cereal, I got a lecture on how fat I was.

No one was exempt. My sister would rage against anything and everything. The way my father drank his coffee, the way my brother got his books ready for school. Everything was fodder for her rages. If you didn’t respond fast enough you risked having something thrown at you.

I’m still not a morning person and having people talk to me risks a panic attack.

Before I started school I would get peace during the day. I would watch shows like “The Friendly Giant” or “Mr. Dressup”. The afternoon would bring the occasional movie, usually something by Hitchcock which I loved. Everything stopped when “Days of Our Lives” came on which I watched religiously with my mother. I played outside with our dogs Lady and Dutchess and the days passed in relative serenity.

Those are some of my happiest memories.

After my siblings came home from school, it was chaos again. My sister was sure to fly into another rage and I was painfully aware from a very early age that it was my fault that she was upset. It was my job to make her happy and I was failing. I would plead, with tears in my eyes, for her to stop. She would then direct the screaming at me, making sure I knew that it was all my fault.

My brother John had his own rages, usually triggered by my sister and a fist would go through a wall or a door again. My father would try and contain him while suffering the verbal assault my sister would lay on him.

I tried to retreat to my bedroom where I would curl up with our dogs and cat. They were my only allies against the storm. Lady, a Rottweiler cross, was extremely protective of me whom she regarded as her puppy. Dutchess, a terrier mix, was goofy and patient and always up for whatever game I had in mind. Kimberly (whom we called Kimmy) was a calico Persian who always displayed the kind of ancient wisdom only cats seem to have. These were my friends, my guides, my teachers, my strength.

When the fights would wind down for the night, my sister would seek me out. Her rage wasn’t quite spent but she wasn’t fool enough to lock horns with my father once he drew the line. She would find something to criticize about me or something to punish.

Then something magical happened and I started school and my sister started university. She brought home books. Books I started looking at the pictures of and got my first taste of Salvadore Dali and Rorschach and Freud.

It was Dali that inspired me to learn to read. Dali and a picture of clocks melting across a landscape. I was five years old and, although I didn’t know it, I found my salvation.

(to be continued…)

]]>dstlukeIt Never Happened – A True Story of Sibling Abuse (Part 3)https://stluked.wordpress.com/2018/09/10/it-never-happened-a-true-story-of-sibling-abuse-part-3/
Mon, 10 Sep 2018 14:51:38 +0000http://stluked.wordpress.com/?p=992[…]]]>TRIGGER WARNING!! The following contains graphic descriptions of abuse and may trigger readers who have a sensitivity to these images. Be warned.

At this point in my story I need to veer off and talk about another part of the tale that isn’t wholly mine to tell. I had two brothers I’ll call John (the older) and James (the younger of the two). As I was the baby of the family, a large part of this story I didn’t witness but was told by John and James what happened. I’ve put the pieces together here. I wasn’t the only victim and survivor of sibling abuse in my family. In a lot of ways, James had it worse than I did but in many ways he had it easier. You be the judge.

John was the next oldest in age, being about a year younger than my sister. He was born premature as my mother decided to help my father move a sofa when she was in her 8th month of pregnancy. An idiotic move but the birth led to more feelings of guilt on my mother’s part. It became clear there was something wrong with him and my mother was positive it had to do with his premature birth. I didn’t. My brother was diagnosed with schizophrenia in his 40s. Was he showing symptoms in his teens? I don’t know. I do know that he was one of those rare schizophrenics who don’t see or hear things but, rather, has delusions in his mind. Delusions of grandeur they’re called.

James was a year younger than John and a problem from the beginning. He didn’t speak until he was about 3 or 4 years old because he was simply too lazy. He would point and grunt at something and my parents would get him what he wanted. He was also a late walker for a similar reason. He simply didn’t need to as my parents would pick him up and carry him. The doctor put an end to it, though, when he told my mother to stop giving in to him. Within a couple of months he was walking and talking. He was later diagnosed as a “slow learner” by school psychologists. This was a catch-all phrase in the 70s meaning there was something wrong but no one could pinpoint what.

John had a streak of cruelty and violence in him that seemed to come from nowhere. Now, it is uncommon for schizophrenics to be violent unless they’re protecting themselves. My brother, however, seemed to revel in cruelty, especially toward James. Some of the incidents are too graphic for me to relate but I will speak of a few so readers can get an idea of what was going on.

James was the scapegoat for whatever John had in mind. Many times he’d make James stand in a corner while John and his friends threw darts at him. Another favorite game was to make James crawl on the floor yelling, “I’m a pig!” and squealing. As I said, there were others but those will give you an idea of what went on.

Is it any wonder, then, that James continued to wet the bed his entire life? Part of it was laziness. He simply didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night to go pee. Part of it was John. If James did make the mistake of getting out of bed, John was there waiting to pounce. Eventually, James just learned to stay in bed and stay asleep. It was a survival trait as much as anything. However, the behaviour never changed in his entire life.

John also had a violent temper and the walls of the apartments where we lived were a testament to that. He would often put his fists through walls and doors, threatening anyone who got in his way in a blind rage. As a baby I was largely shielded and so was my sister by virtue of being a girl. My brother, James, and my parents, though, were the usual targets. Neighbours often complained about these violent outbursts and managers would come to inspect the apartment. We got creative, though, and learned to hide the holes with pictures and posters. One of my favorite pictures was a replica of “Blue Boy”, a painting I still find haunting and attractive.

My parents did try to get John help but in 70s, child care was much different than it is now. Desperately they reached out to doctors, teachers, even social workers who gave them the spare the rod, spoil the child speech. If John was a torment, it was their fault because they were bad parents. Given my mother’s history, it only added to her sense of guilt and anxiety.

I’m not sure exactly what happened as the incident has largely remained a family secret, hidden even from me, but by the time John reached 15 he was evicted from the family home. Years later my father related much of the story but I have no recollection and don’t know the intricacies of it.

It was about this time that my parents began fearing for their children’s safety when John would act out. They had three other children to think of and one of them wasn’t even in school yet. James had all but retreated into himself and refused to speak of the abuse he suffered at John’s hands. James and I learned to keep the family secrets or else.

John was being violent again and my father was trying, in vain, to contain him. As a child, the physical violence of my brother and the verbal violence of my sister was simply too much for me to handle. I would often come out, begging in tears for everyone to stop. Please just stop. Even to this day I cannot stand a voice raised in anger. It’s enough to make me shake and cry uncontrollably.

I must have stepped in between my father and John. John swung out. Whether it was with his fist or his foot, I don’t know. I don’t know if he connected or not but it was this incident that caused my father to eject him from the home. My father later said he had to choose between John’s violence and my safety and he chose me though he didn’t love my brother any less.

Let me make it clear that my brother John never turned his violence towards me intentionally and he was just as hurt and shocked as my father was that I was nearly the one injured. He left the home, becoming homeless at that age and was later taken in by some friends who were part of a motorcycle gang though he never officially became a member of the gang. His life was a daily struggle that no one in the family could ease and it weighed on my father heavily.

Later in life, before my brother James died of cancer in 2001, James returned home to accept responsibility for what he’d done as a teen. He’d been diagnosed with schizophrenia by this time and was dutifully taking his meds. In a heart to heart conversation, John apologized for what he’d done to James. They both acknowledged that an apology didn’t change what happened but it did much to heal them both. I know how hard it was for John to swallow his pride and give that apology. I also know how much he needed to say the words and how glad he was after my brother’s death that he’d given it.

I never received even the acknowledgement that these events occurred by my abuser.

(to be continued…)

]]>dstlukeIt Never Happened – A True Story of Sibling Abuse (Part 2)https://stluked.wordpress.com/2018/09/09/it-never-happened-a-true-story-of-sibling-abuse-part-2/
Sun, 09 Sep 2018 16:43:48 +0000http://stluked.wordpress.com/?p=990[…]]]>By the time my sister was 11, my mother had built up enough guilt to satisfy the Vatican for a decade. She was determined to be a good mother but how could she when her child’s life was a daily torment? Part of her lived in constant fear that her children would be taken away again.

She came up with a brilliant plan, have another child. My mother hoped I’d be a girl so that my sister would have a playmate. It was my job from the moment I was conceived to make my sister’s life better.

However, long before I was ever thought of another problem was brewing. My sister would often come home filled with the rage, frustration and tears that bullying brings. Without any other venue to release those emotions, she would vent them on the family in the form of verbal rages. My parents began giving in to her demands as a means to try and make her happy. My father was at a loss as to how to fix the situation. A quiet man, his solutions to problems were often direct and swift. Bullying, though, is a complex problem and, at the time, was seen as unimportant.

So the situation at home was quickly becoming centred around my sister. Getting pregnant and giving birth to me specifically to make my sister’s life more pleasant just cemented the deal. My mother often joked how I never belonged to her, that my siblings took over my care. Especially my sister.

Any parent should be aware that leaving the care of an infant to your children who are just entering their teen years is a bad idea. Especially when the only peer interaction one of those children had was one of torment. Now, in the home, my sister was quickly becoming the little dictator of the family. If my sister wanted something done, she would scream until it was done. Everyone just learned to get out of her way to keep some peace in the house.

My mother saw how happy I made my sister so she turned more and more of my care over to my sister. I’m not sure when my discipline was included in that but the daughter that was quickly ruling the house with an iron fist was allowed to rule over me as well. As my sister grew into a woman with her own life, my mother’s guilt slowly eased. Even if it never went away.

I feel a need to interject something here. My mother suffered from something few of us can understand and I don’t blame her for that. However, she used that suffering as a justification for rejecting me and not bonding with me as a mother should. She further used her past and state of mind to enable and condone my sister’s abuse. She not only saw what my sister did but she encouraged it and it’s that for which I do blame her.

There is a story that my mother found outrageously funny about my early years that she would tell repeatedly. I find it alarming.

When I was a toddler, probably about 2 years old or so, I was being potty trained. Like any child, the concept was a bit beyond me still so I was still having accidents. There’s every possibility, too, that my bladder wasn’t yet ready for full potty training. However, that didn’t stop my sister who was tired of changing diapers.

One day I was playing in the living room when my sister asked if I needed to go. I said no and kept playing. It’s likely that I was engrossed in my play and simply didn’t have the attention required to know if my bladder was full or not. I was a toddler and knowing when you have to go pee is a new skill that requires some thought.

I have many memories from my early years. My first memory is waking up in my crib from a nightmare and pulling myself up by the bars, crying as I did so. I was probably a little less than a year old at the time. The potty training memory is another memory but it comes in bits and flashes. Not like the nightmare one which is fairly clear.

I chose that moment to let my bladder loose. Right in front of my sister who was already done with this whole potty training business. Convinced I had done it just to spite her, my sister picked me up and turned me over her knee. My mother wasn’t opposed to spanking and she had allowed my sister more and more freedom regarding my care. When my sister began spanking me, she did nothing to stop it.

It’s at this point my mother always began to laugh. She would tell me in mirthful tones how my sister spanked me so long and so hard she began to get frightened. Once I asked why she didn’t stop my sister. My mother merely responded by saying she didn’t see a reason to stop her. Still, the spanking went on. I don’t remember the actual spanking but I do remember my sister grabbing me.

It was my father who intervened. I don’t know where he was until then but I do know he came into the room to my screams. Apparently he ripped me away from my sister and cradled me protectively. My father rarely got angry but he did at that moment and proclaimed that no one was to ever spank me again. I still received spankings, mostly from my mother and with a wooden spoon or such, but it was always when my father was away. She knew I didn’t dare tell him of these things.

According to my mother I was magically potty trained from that moment on and I never had another accident. Even when she took me on a two hour train ride. Not one single accident. Yes, I’d learned. I learned that crossing my sister had consequences and it wasn’t my mother that would intervene.

My father rarely came between my sister and I. Although he was physically imposing, he was a gentle, quiet man. At 6’1″, he had a distinctly Clark Gable look about him with those same distinguished good looks. Even complete with the moustache which always looked handsome on him. A look few men could ever pull off. However, confrontation and violence of any kind weren’t his way. While he was prepared to fight for what he believed in and protect what he loved, he preferred a quiet solution to problems.

My mother laughed about the incident for years until dementia finally claimed her memories and she no longer told the story. It is the one thing I’ve been grateful to dementia for giving me. Peace from that sickeningly gleeful way she talked of my sister’s physical violence towards me. I suppose, then, that emotional and psychological violence weren’t even worth noticing for her.

Although my sister’s physical violence was curbed, her penchant for emotional and psychological cruelty wasn’t and it was here she excelled.

Yes, I am both those things and what follows is the hardest thing I’ve ever written in my life. Even now there’s a fear that what I’m doing is wrong and that I’ll get punished for it. That never really goes away, you know. The sense that my abuser is watching and disapproves is always there, always in the background. I always feel a sense of impending punishment.

I still have problems speaking about it. I hear the same old justifications in my head; at least you weren’t hit (I was) or at least they weren’t addicts or there were others who had it worse than you. Yet another part of me wants to speak out. The writer in me needs to tell the story.

I was born the youngest of 6 and it’s here that the stage was set for my abuse. My mother lost her oldest two boys to her father’s cruelty and laziness and a system that was stacked against the poor. She met my father and three months later she was pregnant with my sister. A scandal at the time and one of the first secrets I was taught to keep. It was the first of many.

My mother worked as a waitress and got a job while in the early stages of her pregnancy. The job required her to get a test for tuberculosis. An x-ray. Why my mother got the x-ray when she knew she was pregnant is a mystery even to her. It would have been easy to opt out or to ensure precautions were taken but she didn’t.

My sister was born with Hallermann-Streiff Syndrome, a congenital condition that affects mostly the face and skull. In short, my sister looked different and that difference was the cause of some extreme bullying she suffered in her early years. Did this affect what was to come and who she became? Of course. Does it excuse it? Not at all.

In the first 12 years of her life my sister was tormented by her peers as a freak and it affected my mother deeply. She blamed herself for the loss of her two oldest boys, now adopted legally by her very good friend, and she knew that the x-ray was to blame for my sister’s condition. My mother swam in a sea of guilt and I have no doubt that there was an element of depression involved.

It’s here I need to touch on my parent’s relationship. My mother had been married to a man who had a habit of just walking away from the family for weeks or months at a time whenever the whim overcame him. He lived homeless and partied with friends most of the time. When my mother lost her sons, she walked away from the marriage and filed for divorce but was unable to locate him. That’s when she met my father.

My father was a good man who lived a wanderer’s life. He was much like Bilbo Baggins, content to roam the earth with nothing more than a backpack and a smile. Sometimes not even that. As a teen and young adult, he often “rode the rails” or what is now called being a hobo. He would jump on trains and ride them to the next stop. He even once told me it wasn’t uncommon for him to get himself arrested loitering or something small so he’d have a place to sleep and a good meal. Not a glorious life but my father had a good heart and he never caused harm to anyone. He later joined the Army because, as he put it, he wanted a job. After that was finished he joined the Air Force and then the Merchant Marines. He even went to Korea as a member of the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry. Yes, he was a ground pounder.

My father and mother met when he was in the Merchant Marines. He’d missed his ship and met a waitress whose life had taken a bad turn instead. My mother had just lost her sons and left their father when she met my father. Although he would help her fight for their return, they were never successful. When she became pregnant, my father chose to stay at a time when, if he had chosen to leave, no one would have thought anything about it. After all, in the 50s, a pregnancy was the woman’s problem and her job to find a man to provide for her and the baby but it was a man’s choice to take on that role.

By the time my mother met my father, she was wrung out. Too much had happened and she’d had no help dealing with any of it. She often told me that she didn’t care if my father stayed or left. My father, being the man he was, chose to stay and be the best father he could be with nothing more than a grade 6 education and determination.

This, then, was the back story into which I was born. I didn’t stand a chance.

]]>dstlukeNLD and Halloweenhttps://stluked.wordpress.com/2018/09/07/nld-and-halloween/
Fri, 07 Sep 2018 16:56:35 +0000http://stluked.wordpress.com/?p=983[…]]]>Summer is coming to a close and that means Halloween is fast approaching. For those of us with Nonverbal Learning Disorder that’s a mixed blessing. Any time strangers are willing to give me candy is a good time (okay, there was that time with the van…). However, there’s something distinctly unnerving about having kids run up to your door and randomly shouting. So what can you do to minimize your stress during this time?

If you plan on handing out candy, here’s some ideas;

Have you or a family member sit on the porch (preferably in costume). This allows you to head off all that random shouting because you’re right there. If you live in a warmer climate, this might be an enjoyable way to spend the evening.

Put up a sign. This comes from an elderly neighbour who just didn’t want to deal with “screaming kids”. She made a very large sign and put it in front of the door saying very clearly to not shout and to ring the doorbell instead.

Set out bowls of candy to self-serve. This idea works better than you’d think. 99% of people who come to the door are considerate and only take one or two pieces. You may get the one jerk but they are few and far between. After all, no one wants to be the guy who spoils Halloween for others.

If you’re a parent going out with your NLD child;

Don’t use masks, use makeup. Masks can obscure vision and create anxiety in someone who already has sensory problems. As well, seeing through the small holes can increase problems with spatial recognition. This is going to be a recipe for disaster.

Try on the costume ahead of time. When your child is sensory sensitive, you need to work out the bugs ahead of time. That bit of spandex might not bother you but it might be a slow burn for your child.

Walk the neighbourhood ahead of time. Whether it’s you or your child, getting an idea ahead of time of what to expect is a good idea. NLD people lack focus so walk the area in daylight and look around. Is that pumpkin on the porch something you have to watch for? Take a notepad and take notes.

Set out rules ahead of time. You and your child need a set of guidelines to work by so you know what to expect. If you have NLD, you may want to tell your child to remain no further than 10 feet from you. If your child has NLD you may want them to return to your side every third house or so.

Emergency numbers. If, for some reason, you and your child get separated, it’s a good idea that both of you have cell phones. This may not be a good idea if you have a very young child but any child that can operate a cell phone should have one on them. Make sure they know how to use it (both phoning and texting features) and where the emergency numbers are. If you have a young child, make sure they know their full name (not all kids do) and their parent’s full name. If you can help them memorize their phone number, that’s all the better.

Lastly, if you’re a home that is handing out candy, please consider having a teal pumpkin and having candy alternatives such as small toys. There are children with medical issues who cannot participate in Halloween because of them. The teal pumpkin lets parents know that your home has candy alternatives. Toys for this purpose are relatively inexpensive at places like the Dollar Store.

]]>dstlukeWar on Povertyhttps://stluked.wordpress.com/2018/08/26/war-on-poverty/
Sun, 26 Aug 2018 17:35:56 +0000http://stluked.wordpress.com/?p=981[…]]]>I’ve been avoiding writing this post. If you read my last post, you’ll remember how I got mansplained about my writing and poverty. The experience has left me a bit shaken and angry (still) while the person who did it still doesn’t have the balls to contact me about it (I sent him a link to my last post). However, I still have something to say and I’m not about to be silenced on the matter. So here we go.

Usually my posts on poverty involve explaining what it’s like to live here. I hope that someone will read it and will gain a bit of understanding and compassion but I realize I’m fighting the wrong battle.

Most people when they fight poverty come from a bottom up tactic. That is, they address all the issues that people living in poverty have to struggle with; homelessness, food security, health care, etc. So, they try to come up with solutions to that will fix these problems with the mistaken belief that it will cure poverty. Poverty isn’t a disease and we can’t treat it that way.

I have to admit I’ve been guilty of this as well but it’s a never-ending fight. You put out one fire only to have three more crop up in its place which requires more solutions and fixes and more resources and more people to run them and… and… and… From this perspective, it seems hopeless.

Then someone asked me a question. “What do you do if the homeless guy is happy being homeless?” I dismissed it as being silly. After all, who wants to be homeless and fighting for survival all the time? Then I remembered, not all homelessness is the person sleeping in alleys and in doorways.

Alberta is oil country. There are a lot of people who work in rig camps and earn a very good living that way. Usually this is a switch schedule. So, someone might work three weeks up in a camp and have one week off. During that week they don’t live in the camps so they come to the city. Usually Edmonton. Financially it doesn’t make sense to rent an apartment or buy a house if you’re only going to be there for one week out of every month. So they live in hotels or couch surf. Technically they’re homeless but they’re not poor.

But going back to the question, what do you do with the person who’s content to live in the back of a camper or van? What do you say to the person who doesn’t want to be tied down to rent or utilities. They’re out there. Do you force them to live a lifestyle you don’t want just because their current way of living makes you uncomfortable?

It was this question that made me realize that I’m fighting the wrong war. As Jesus once said, “the poor you have with you always.” (Matt 26:11) but that didn’t mean that something couldn’t be done about poverty. The problem isn’t poverty. Running around putting out brush fires makes no sense especially when you’re using methods established decades or even centuries earlier.

The problem is wealth.

I’ve made this point before; Canada is a resource wealthy country. How is it that we have all these resources and still have people starving? How is it we have all this space and still have people living in squalid conditions? Conditions that we wouldn’t let a dog live in let alone a person. How is it that these resources are only making their way to Canada’s top 1% or 2%?

A study was begun in Ontario setting up some people with a basic income. In the short time it ran, it changed their lives. Then Doug Ford, who will forever be known as Captain Shortpants, pulled the rug out and stopped it. No notice and only the flimsiest of excuses. If that doesn’t disgust you then you shouldn’t be reading this blog.

I’ve heard the arguments against basic income. People will squander it, addicts will spend it all on drugs, women will get pregnant just to get more, the list goes on. What it comes down to is those in the “Have” column of life believe that those living in the “Have Not” column are too stupid and too lazy to be allowed more than the minimum needed to survive. Oh they’ve got lots of reasoning for this. I’ve heard that, too. It’s a “keep ’em hungry” mentality. The belief that a poor person will work harder to get what they need if they’re kept poor.

Let’s dump that shit for what it is.

The rate of urban development here in Edmonton is mind boggling. Yet, it’s not areas devoted to helping the poor at all. Downtown alone has seen the rise of luxury highrises at a phenomenal rate in the past few years. Couple that with the building of an arena that still leaves me with bile in my mouth and you have a serious problem.

Forget for a moment that all this development of the downtown area displaces the poor and homeless. For all their hand wringing, Don Iveson and his crew are still NIMBY people. Yes, let’s build the low-income housing. Just not where the good folk can see it or be bothered by it.

All this development does is drive up housing costs which, in turn, drives up rents. Edmonton rents are out of control as it is and there’s been absolutely no attempt to curtail them. Instead we get more urban development and luxury highrises. The thinking is that if the upper crust is happy then they’ll sprinkle their money downward and we’ll be happy that they’re pissing their blessings on us.

Enough is enough.

It is time that we demanded that our politicians start a serious redistribution of wealth in this country. Starting with basic income. We should be flooding Captain Shortpants’ phones, emails, Twitter feed and everything else with the demand that he reinstate it. We should be marching in the streets demanding basic income.

Stop putting out brush fires and start putting your resources where they’ll do the most good. Opening a food bank so the poor can eat for another week solves that problem for that week. Basic income solves a lot of problems over a long term. Canada is a disgustingly resource rich country. Far too rich for this to keep going on.

Now regular readers will know that I have little tolerance for people’s crap and care even less for the opinions of others. There is a myth that if you’re a writer you’ll welcome any and all criticism as a chance to grow. Let me turn on the light on this one. It’s bullshit and I’ll tell you why. Not everyone’s opinion matters and few opinions will actually help you grow.

Varric in Dragon Age 2 said it best, “opinions are like testicles. You kick them hard enough, it doesn’t matter how many you’ve got.”

There are people whose opinions and criticisms I seek out but I’m very picky about it. Criticism is meant to help me see things that I may not see myself. It is meant to help me grow as a person. Therefore, I seek out those individuals I trust to give me an honest assessment even if it’s not what I want to hear. Even that’s not enough. This person has to be someone that I see lives a life that I can respect and admire. This person is going to help me determine the direction my life takes. That’s a huge responsibility and one that is going to be taken seriously.

So that’s why I generally ignore most of the criticism that comes online. Don’t get me wrong. I love to hear from people and love it most when people share their own stories but I’m not interested in hearing your opinion on me, my sex life, my fat, my writing, my whatever.

When I wrote the piece “The Housing Crisis As Seen From Below”, it was in response to my city’s desire to remove adult only housing. As someone who lives in poverty, it affects me directly and I wrote out my frustrations as I so often do. Shortly after I published it I was approached by someone who works in my city’s poverty industry (those organizations dedicated to eliminating poverty). This man is well-known and well-respected in the community. I looked forward to discussing the issues with him. I’ll call him John Doe as I don’t want to release his name.

A discussion of issues is not what I got, however. I was tempted to post the entire email wholesale and let the internet do its thing but my rational brain took over at the last minute (it never lets me have any fun) and I put a stop to that. Instead of a discussion among peers, here’s a sample of what I got;

I think you have a voice that should be heard, but here is some unsolicited advice, meant to help you not criticize you.

If you want to be an effective advocate and writer, I suggest you tone down the anger and tone down your self-effacing remarks. They do not serve you well – like it or not, people don’t want your anger, they want your ideas. And don’t downplay yourself (e.g. “yes, that makes me an asshole”). If people think you’re an asshole, let them, but don’t give them ammunition. Lots of people think I am an asshole, too outspoken, or have radical ideas yet lots of people follow my personal blog, appreciate me, are interested in what I have to say. I am good with all of it.

Your ending will turn off people who may very well be on your side — “But, fuck it. The poor only matter as a photo op.” First lots of people don’t see poor people that way, Lots. Some might but the people you want to listen to you, don’t. It’s a turn off in my mind. Just my 2 cents.

Yeah.

I’m not a person that likes confrontation. Years of abuse trained me to keep people happy at all costs. This, though, made me angry. The condescension of it made me taste bile in the back of my throat. As I read the words, “here is some unsolicited advice” I could hear some guy saying, “you know what I think…?” My answer is the same either way, I don’t give a crap what you think and your unsolicited advice is not welcome.

I won’t even go into how the whole “tone down the anger” part made me feel. Or the words “they do not serve you well” feeling like I’m a naughty school girl (no, not in a Stormy Daniels way, either). Here was a man who decided that his opinion was so goddamn important he had to shove it down my throat.

I sent a rather lengthy email back. In short it was a version of “thanks for your opinion now fuck off” but in far nicer terms. As I said, I don’t like confrontation. It makes me itch.

The next email I got (which I may post tomorrow if I’m still angry) read like an essay being corrected. Instead of responding in his own space, he took over the email I sent and wrote his responses in red around my words. Seriously. WTF? The part that really enraged me was his comparison of being bullied at school for being a geek to my revelation of being abused by my family for much of my life. While I do fight against bullying, they’re not close to the same. You can leave your school. I had no options and while I finally did leave my family, it’s a decision that will have impact for the rest of my life. Come see me at Christmas and then let’s compare your elementary school bullying to my family abuse.

My next response was short and sweet. A very nice version of leave me alone.

I am actually way too enraged to answer this right now. That you don’t see the problem is the problem. I need to calm down before I give any further response. Have a nice day.

But he didn’t. His emails continued despite my repeated attempts to ask him to leave me alone so I could calm down and think about the situation. Dammit, I was going to take his criticism whether I wanted to or not. He even went so far as to leave his cell phone number in case I wanted to “chat on the phone” (because that’s a good idea).

It didn’t stop. He fished out a four year old post I wrote on poverty and said he wanted to repost it on his blog. I gave him permission but no indication I wanted to talk. There were more emails. I finally had enough.

One of my heroes is Kirk Acevedo. So it’s no surprise when I feel I’ve been backed into a corner I come out fighting like a dragon. It’s a #kidviciousarmy thing. I sent an email back lashing out like I rarely do. That’s when John Doe got angry in return.

Here is a man with power and influence who wouldn’t leave me alone and now he’s angry with me. Can anyone see how this will end up? I had a full blown panic attack and at 9:30pm I called the cell phone number he left. Only to have him shut me down and refuse to talk.

Finally I talked to a dear friend who listened and let me vent. This is a woman I admire. Whose opinions matter to me. She reminded me that it was my writing, my story, my words. Not his and not to let him take that from me no matter who he is.

So I won’t tone down the anger. I won’t stop tilting at windmills. I won’t stop. This is my story. These are my words.

There are a thousand reasons in a day why I will get angry. Pick one. Racism, homophobia, body shaming, poverty, bad Hollywood movies… take your time. I’ve got a while. It’s not as though I go through my entire day angry at the world. I think about the battles I choose to fight very carefully and some of them do make me angry.

Today I got angry.

One of the battles I choose to fight is poverty. Let me reword that. One of the battles I choose to fight is the distribution of wealth because I live in a nation that has an embarrassment of riches while this winter homeless people will freeze to death. It’s a battle I choose to fight because I live it.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind criticism. I cut my teeth as a writer with some editors who I swear lived on writer’s tears. This, though, made me angry.

This person told me that I should tone down my anger because people don’t want my anger. To be fair, they’re right. People don’t want my anger but it’s not going away because the situation that made me angry isn’t going away. Long before those posts ever saw the light of day I took steps to try to alter the situation through polite discourse and reason.

That worked oh so well.

This person then fixated on a comment I made about people in power using the poor for photo ops. I stand by my statement and I’m not taking it away no matter how uncomfortable it makes people. People in power stay there because they do things like this to fool the populace into thinking they give a shit about the little folks. They don’t. It’s smoke and mirrors and those of us on this side see it for what it is. However, this person told me that “lots of people don’t see poor people that way.”

And that’s when I saw red, Your Honour.

If there is one person out there who can tell me the difference between this statement and #NotAllMen or #NotAllWhites, I’d love to hear it. Start the discussion with a whip and chair, though, because I’m not really in a listening mood.

This person could be right. It’s possible that not all people see the poor this way. However, enough do and if you find yourself using any version of “not all” in any way then you’re part of the damn problem.

So today I got angry and I put on my Don Quixote personality and politely told this person I would keep getting angry at a situation that deserves nothing but my anger.